


At Last, At Tranquility Arrived

by perkynurples



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: It might be Christmas, or the day before it, or the day after, but they don't particularly care either way. They don't need any more than they already have. Enjoying an unlikely but no less real retirement, Gabriel and Jack value nothing more now than the comforts of home.





	At Last, At Tranquility Arrived

He remembers it in summer, as it used to be when they were younger - the endless, arching lanes of gold as far as the eye could see, the murmur of the overripe corn stalks swaying gently in whatever breeze had managed to find its way there; the cows grazing nearby, and the buzz of insects, and, of course, the relentless heat.

Gabriel was born in a city, grew up in a city, and coming here for the first time, young, hopeful still, he was overwhelmed by everything, from the smell of a proper farm to the noises at night, from the food Jack's mother made in such heaps like she was worried they'd never eaten before in their lives, to the way Jack and him somehow managed to slot into the childhood bed in his room every night without fail, even though their feet stuck out and their elbows ended up in each other's ribs, more often than not. They never needed a blanket anyway, not really.

It's been decades, and the land no longer yields as much crop as it used to, and the winters are infinitely harsher, courtesy of the deteriorating climate, but it would take a lot more than that to prevent them from making the place their own. If he is willing to be unabashedly grateful for anything in his life, it's that civilization seems to have stopped at the edge of the valley at some point, turned around, and never really impacted this quiet corner of the world. The closest village is miles away, and the lights of the nearest town not even visible at night, leaving the brilliant canvas of the starry sky unobscured.

And in the mornings, like this one, a foggy dew descends on the fields like a soft veil, and everything is perfectly, blissfully quiet, save for the occasional distant call of a bird, and the crackling of the newest batch of crisp snow.

“What time is it?” he murmurs, before he realizes he’s alone in the bed - that’s also an answer to his question, really, because Jack can never last too long just lying around. He’s probably been outside ever since the sunlight first started streaming into their bedroom through the curtains, chopping wood or shoveling snow, or some such thoroughly unrelaxing task. For his part, Gabriel could spend  _ the day _ in bed, if he were allowed, seeking out the warmth and comfort as often as possible, now that that’s a thing in his life again.

For his part, he got used to all the comforts of retirement ages ago, while Jack seems to be struggling still, but they’re both getting there. This is proof enough.

He does get up eventually, because it’s much less fun, drowsing alone, and makes his way downstairs, slow, lazy, picking up layers as he goes - even though Jack is diligent in keeping the furnace going, anything below the general vicinity of the sixties is too cold for Gabriel, always has been. Even more so now, he thinks sometimes, even though he no longer has any trouble keeping  _ all _ of himself together, no longer sees black smoke when he looks at his own hands, no longer feels a pull on his very cells that sapped him of all feeling on a good day, a solid enough form to even  _ recognize _ the weather on a bad one.

He is whole again, or as whole as can be, and a part of that seems to be his returning hatred for the cold.

“Morning, girl,” he greets the dog, trying to balance scratching her head properly while also making his way to the kitchen. “Not out with him, huh?”

She wags his tail at him, fortunately no sign of snow-drenched fur, then trots away and watches him from her spot by the living room door, waiting for Jack to return, too.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in a minute,” Gabriel offers conversationally, pouring their ancient, heavy kettle full of water in preparation of that. “You know how he gets - I bet he forgot to eat. Yeah, you he fed, but to make himself breakfast? Unheard of.”

She barks as if in agreement, then proceeds to curl into a deceptively small ball in a soft bed of her own. She’s barely past her puppy months, but compared to the skinny, terrified bundle of matted fur they found cowering behind their jeep in the summer, she’s a whole different dog now.

Her ears perk up almost comically quickly when the rattling by the front door announces Jack’s return - she shoots out of the kitchen lightning-fast when she hears him clearing his throat, paws skidding on the terracotta tiles.

“Hey! You awake? Come take a look at this! Alright, alright, yeah, it’s me, girl, I’m back...”

“What is it?” Gabriel calls, sliding the kettle off the stove just as it begins whistling - by the door, he can hear Jack stomping snow off his boots, the dog greeting him like she hasn't seen him in days. Seconds later she's back in the kitchen, as if she means to say,  _ how aren't you just as excited as I am?! _

“You're not gonna believe this,” Jack sounds mildly astounded, which is really saying something for him, and Gabriel waits for him to appear at last, cheeks red and hair mussed from his hat, and in his hand...

“The hell is that?”

“A postcard.”

“We don't get post,” Gabriel points out.

“Well, we did get this. I found it in the rusty mailbox, you know, the one out by the road?”

“Isn't that marten nesting there? Did you chase out the marten, Jack? How dare you.”

“The marten is fine,” Jack rolls his eyes, and Gabriel snatches the glossy piece of paper out of his hand.

_ Season's Greetings!, _ reads the generic winter scene, and when Gabriel turns it over, he sees no return address, no indication where the thing even came from - all there is, is a scribbled note in vaguely familiar handwriting, and below it, an obnoxiously large letter J, taking up almost the entirety of the blank space, and beside it, a doodle of a stylized skull in pink neon marker.

“ _ Happy holidays and a peaceful retirement, _ ” he recites, the smile audible in his voice, “ _ invite us for a visit at some point, will you. _ ”

“Can you believe this?” Jack shakes his head.

“Little shits,” Gabriel huffs a laugh.

“Can't believe they even risked sending a piece of paper across continents.”

“Emails aren't exactly the height of holiday cheer,” Gabriel teases, “I think it's nice.”

Somewhere beneath Jack's smile, there is a shadow of another emotion, a different one, like he's suddenly lost in thought.

“I guess so, yeah. So much for staying under the radar, huh?”

“Hmm,” Gabriel agrees, moving in closer to get a better look, a perfect excuse for sneaking his arm around Jack's waist.

“We are  _ not _ inviting them over.”

“Well, not this year, no,” Gabriel grins.

“Or ever.”

“Now, don't be unsociable. We could cook for more than two.”

The dog huffs a quiet bark, worming her way in between them.

“Three, sorry.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Aw, come on. Didn't you tell me this house used to host, what, a couple dozen?”

“Yeah, but at least half of those were children, and the roof wasn't in any danger of caving in back then.”

“Well, we could always use them as helping hands,” Gabriel postulates.

“Get the cowboy to chop wood, you mean? Make Sombra winterize your prized black currant?”

“You make your little jokes,” Gabriel elbows him in the side, presumably to get him to make room, preparations for breakfast now in full swing. “But we could... not do everything ourselves, for once.”

“You admitting you’re getting old now?”

“I don’t know who pulled his back lifting those bags of oats the other day.”

“Says the guy with a beer gut.”

“Hey! Hitting me where it hurts.”

“Hitting you where it’s soft.”

And so on, and so forth - they continue to bicker as they move about the kitchen, soon filling it with the scent of fresh french toast, alongside their laughter. Eventually, they stick the postcard to the fridge, held in place with a magnet in the shape of an apple, blending in perfectly with the chaotic array of other bits and pieces they find memorable and important, from newspaper clippings to half finished shopping lists.

The exact time doesn’t really matter -  _ a bit too late for breakfast, _ the singular stripe of sunlight warming the kitchen floor spells out - as they’re in no real rush anywhere, anymore. Jack eventually coaxes the ancient radio on the windowsill back to life, and it sputters and struggles, until it finally manages to find enough signal to fill the kitchen with the slightly off-key notes of an oldies song neither of them can quite place.

There are days when they dance, but this morning, they’re content to simply plop down in their old sofa, side by side, slotting together perfectly yet again after decades of practice, Gabriel teasing Jack about his hat hair, spending minimal effort tucking strands of it back in place, or perhaps messing him up even more - Jack in turn annoys him by picking crumbs out of his mustache, without really looking, weathering his scowling with nothing but laughter. The dog watches over her masters, all yips and uncontained glee when they allow her to join in on the fun, the old couch straining under the pile of them.

It might be Christmas, or the day before it, or a couple of days after, but it doesn’t really matter to them - they aren’t ones for decorations, not anymore, anyway. And as for gifts, there is no need for anything than what they already have.

One ritual does remain, and that is making sure that their family are safe and sound - they spent so much time, so much effort, making themselves invisible when they first came here, and reaching out is still risky, they still gamble every single time they even so much as go online... But they still do it, and feel reaffirmed in all the decisions that have led up to this point, time after time. There are, after all, certain perks that come with the entire world believing you’re dead, for good this time.

“You were right to trust her,” Jack nods towards the very official picture of Fareeha in her fanciest Strike Commander garb, so reminiscent of Jack himself in his early days, the determination and quiet pride so obvious in her eyes. Gabriel looks at him, his broad back hunched as he leans closer to the screen, scars still peeking out from underneath the fraying red sweater, hair snow white, and tries to recall the boy he used to be, the boy Gabriel fell in love with once upon a time - to his immense satisfaction, it’s just as easy as remembering which page of the album his favorite photograph is on.

“We both trusted her,” he reminds Jack, one hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, somehow we managed to stumble into doing the right thing eventually,” Jack chuckles, covering Gabriel’s fingers with his own, squeezing briefly.

Time has dulled the edges of that hurt, disentangled large portions of the incomprehensible web of mistakes and misunderstandings, decades of painful history like a maze to navigate through in their search for a moment of peace - today, they can both attest to the healing power of deciding to let the past rest, and leave the future unpredicted.

And if their absolution is to be found in anything whatsoever, then perhaps the knowledge that the others have managed to find their own versions of peace, just might be enough.

The rest of the old guard, much like them, have said goodbye to the limelight, left the painstakingly reborn Overwatch to the young ones, ready to defend its ideals anew. Reinhardt checks in more often than anyone else, concerned perhaps that Jack and Gabriel have decided not to keep their promise of finally, finally taking a break. Ana knows they wouldn’t dare, but still keeps in touch, the odd half-encrypted message here and there, the pictures of her garden attached almost as if by accident, no faces, no locations, but the presence is enough.

Jesse, Gabriel knows, is enjoying his own version of an early retirement with that unlikely husband of his, evidently with enough time to send cryptic postcards out of the blue - as for Sombra, he doesn’t even try guessing where she might be, not really.

The others, they see on the news, in pictures and videos, on posters and webpages, and there’s a comfort in it. The circle of people who know that Jack and Gabriel are, in fact, watching, is very small, after all - to the rest of the world, they’ve been buried six feet under since they made their final attempt at saving it, and the ancient house just outside Bloomington, Indiana, is nothing but an abandoned ruin with some very questionable ownership details. Never for sale, though, no.

 

“Come on, then,” Jack sighs, getting up from the computer, as Gabriel dutifully disconnects them from the outside world, old-fashioned wire after wire, until next time.

“Oh? Where are we going?”

“I wanna show you... I made something for you. For us.”

“I told you, snowmen looking like me got old years ago.”

“Shut up,” Jack smiles, “wear a hat.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued.”

It’s snowing outside, large, heavy flakes like cotton fluff settling on the already thick duvet of white, and the crunching of their boots is the only sound to be heard as Jack leads them out back, past the barn and the garage, past the oak overlooking the closest of the fields. Their hands find their way to one another eventually, Gabriel’s mitten around Jack’s bare fingers, and they glance up every now and then, to catch a glimpse of the moon among the shifting clouds.

“What is this about?” Gabriel wonders, “because sex in the cornfield is only fun when there is corn  _ and _ sun, Jack, I don’t think...”

Jack’s laughter is always refreshing, no matter how much more often Gabriel gets to hear it these days, and he pulls him close, hooking their elbows.

“Like I’m letting you be sick for a month again,” Jack offers, and Gabriel huffs indignantly.

“It wasn’t  _ that  _ bad. I slept through most of it - oh. Is this it? Well, I do admit a tool shed might be warmer, but we could have spent the night with the cows, I don’t think they would have minded-”

“We are not having sex anywhere but our bed tonight, Gabe,” Jack declares resolutely, fiddling with the latch on the half-rotten door.

“Oh. Kind of relieved, I gotta say. What is this, then? Did you finally manage to clean up in here like you swore you would in the summer?”

“In a sense,” Jack smirks.

They walked here assisted by nothing but the orange glow of the house alight, and yet, for the first couple of seconds after entering the shed, Gabriel is blinded by the utter darkness inside -  _ ironic, _ he thinks, and then Jack flips a switch somewhere.

Some cleaning  _ did _ happen, but only to accommodate the cloth-covered mass in the middle, which Jack circles proudly.

“A car?” Gabriel postulates.

“Not just any car.”

“Oh?”

It’s a bright, fiery red, and Gabriel is instantly transported half a world away, to a very different setting, in another lifetime - the roof rolled down, wind whipping their grinning cheeks, Jack’s hand on his knee as they sped toward Los Angeles, the scorching hot air fluttering at the edge of the horizon...

It’s been decades, and much like so many other things, he’s always considered that part of his life gone and buried.

“This, uh,” his voice betrays him briefly, “this is what you’ve been working on every morning?”

“Yeah.” Jack’s smile is just as warm as when they were barely approaching their thirties, free for a precious few days, their minds as clear of worries as the periwinkle blue sky above was clear of clouds.

“And here I thought you just really liked shoveling snow,” Gabriel says somewhat weakly.

Jack only huffs a laugh, jumping into the passenger seat, beckoning Gabriel to follow suit. He does, and the seats are luxuriously soft, the leather brand new...

“Where did you even get this thing?”

“It was a wreck when I found it. Rusting in a scrapyard on the far side of the city. I wasn’t even sure I could fix it up, but when I saw it there...”

It’s easy as ever, pulling him in - the second of surprise, the warmth when he realizes, the smile against Gabriel’s lips, it’s all there, always has been, and he relishes in it, even cramped in a decidedly cold tool shed on the  _ very  _ far side of their property...

“My god, you told me this place was full of old moldy hay!” he remembers out of nowhere, “that you’d handle it on your own, and not to strain my allergies!”

Jack squints,  _ did I? _ , but his mischievous smile after that is delicious.

“Well, there’s no hay now, is there?” he shrugs so innocently that it makes Gabriel laugh.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “no hay.”

Jack leans in, and they somehow succeed at resting in a somewhat unfinished embrace, listening to the perfect silence for quite some time. Gabriel runs his hands over the sleek vintage dashboard, the perfect steering wheel, tries his grip on the stick shift, all the while Jack holds him close, his breathing even and calm, but his eyes are following Gabriel’s every move, he knows as much.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and Jack hums his agreement, the warmth in between them enough to chase away the cold of this particular winter evening.

They kiss some more, struggling for room in their seats, and Gabriel is reminded of stopping at abandoned car rests by the side of the road, waiting for the dust to settle, their hands hot and quick on each other, sliding under clothes, not a care in the world for who might drive by...

“Seriously,” Jack mutters into the kiss, “ _ not _ having sex with you in here.”

“Fine,” Gabriel harrumphs.

“Not in the middle of winter, anyway.”

“Ha! There’s an invitation if I ever heard one.”

“Let’s go back home, before we freeze to death,” Jack pokes his chest. “Come on. The car will still be here in the spring when the snow has melted and we’re actually capable of taking it for a drive.”

They used to be so very far away from anything even vaguely resembling this amount of peace - they don’t need reminding, not really, not anymore, but the gravity of it still weighs on them sometimes, usually when neither of them feel like putting it into words. They crawl out of the car slowly, Gabriel helping Jack cover it back up with the heavy oiled cloth, and they make their way outside hand in hand again.

Jack laughs over some off-hand comment of Gabriel’s, and pulls him in for another kiss, and... There was a time when the bridge between them did not only appear severed, they could see it burning with no hope of saving it. There was time, long before even that, when they carried matching rings, Gabriel on his finger and Jack on a thin golden chain around his neck, when they were together  _ on paper, _ but something aching and bitter had already crawled its way in between them, trapping them in a perpetual hell of miscommunication, decades upon decades of words unspoken or said too often, mistakes uncorrected or deeds undone, piling up until they were almost suffocating.

Who would have thought, that all it took for all the creases to be evened out, for them to arrive at their second chance, was to die all over again. Some might call it irony - for them, it felt more like the culmination of everything they’d ever strived for. The world, moving on without them, working to settle itself back down into its long-forgotten grooves. He looks at Jack, and he doesn’t see what they used to be, the warriors, the Soldier or the Reaper - there’s only what’s left, both of them stripped of any and all rank and title, no longer willing or able to sacrifice everything they are for the sake of someone’s idea of  _ peace. _ No, the only peace on their mind right now is their own.

He lingers perhaps a bit too long, looking at the car, but past it too, and when he finally secures the shed’s door, Jack is playing with the dog, throwing snowballs at her which she catches and crushes mid-flight apparently enough entertainment for both of them.

He considers joining in, but just looking is enough - although it’s hardly the scene in general he’s concentrating on.

Once, he could count the times Jack appeared unguarded in front of him on one hand - those occasions were rare, to be cherished, only ever shared between the two of them when their schedules and timezones mysteriously aligned for a precious few moments, allowing their relationship to actually exist for real, outside the fleeting late-night video calls and promises of dates that never came.

Once, he couldn’t be sure if the smile he saw on Jack’s face wouldn’t, by this or that trick of fate, be the very last, and so he cataloged them all almost obsessively.

Now, he is finally allowed the simple comfort of smiling back, laughter bubbling up in his throat alongside Jack’s - he shoves his hands in his pockets, squares his shoulders against the brisk wind that carries with it the reminder of more snow later, and together, they make their way back home.

He remembers the place in summer, how far apart the buildings had seemed, how the bleached white walls of the house had shone like a beacon to be seen all the way from the far end of the driveway; how everything was unfamiliar farming equipment and even more unfamiliar terms for the work it was supposed to do, the quiet brooding figure of Jack’s father behind the wheel of a tractor, the manual labor.

The endless, dizzying gold of the corn fields stretching as far as the eye could see, in such stark contrast with the rust-brown roofs of the farm - with one of the walls in Jack’s childhood rome, the sloping one, painted a rich, royal blue.

 

And the softness of it now, faded wood and the tin of the roofs darkened with age, the fields slumbering under a heavy duvet of unchanging, pristine white, to remain that way for long, long months, until the sun remembers to shine strong enough to melt those.

The rhythmic crunching of the snow under their boots, the way it glistens like precious stones when the dim glow of the one lit window of the house reflects off it.

The way the cold paints Jack’s cheeks red, lending his eyes that gleam that makes him look younger, thrilled, much like Gabriel himself, to simply be, right there and then.

Jack kisses him again in the hallway, the dog preoccupied with wreaking havoc on their shoes, and much like all the rest of their life after death, it is unscripted, and thus a pleasant surprise.

Outside, the wind picks up briefly, rattling the skeletons of trees, and nothing seems like a better idea right now than reassuming their place on the couch, tangled together, watching the elements work their magic.

Yes, he remembers the place in summer, but these days, he honestly thinks he prefers it in winter.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is a quick and shamefully belated Secret Santa thing, organized over at Tumblr! I had lots of fun writing it, the prompt called for fluff, and I was more than happy to deliver! Short and harmless, if you liked, come chat with me at bilboo.tumblr.com! <3


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